Summary: Volke knew that everyone would die around him- for one reason or another. He really shouldn't have been this affected. Hints of Volke/Bastian, character death. Little bit of headcanon.
Bastian was a human. As much as Volke disliked it, he himself was a branded. He could tell- the girl, Micaiah, was older than she seemed. It was the same as him. He had looked the same for quite some time. In three years, only his hair had grown.
Now, several decades later, Volke looked old, yes, but more so in his fifties. The assassin was far older, and Bastian knew it. After all, the extravagant man made sure to secretly celebrate the brunet's birthday every year, to Volke's exasperation.
But now, there would be no celebrations. No wealthy jobs, witty banter with dry sarcasm… no famed silver tongue. The sage was dead and Volke was still alive.
The now silver haired man looked peaceful, forever cursed to eternal silence. Volke- almost unchanged except more noticeable silver streaks- looked on. He would miss the man, for many reasons… and not just his petty love for gold.
"… the famed silver tongue… cast into silence," Volke spoke quietly. He had to- no one knew he was here. Although… Queen Elincia probably knew. She was wise- the years had done her well. "May the Goddess treat you well."
Volke never was a religious person. His profession went against most ways of thinking. He would do anything for gold. His thought process was the opposite of Bastian's. Whilst Bastian's loyalty lay in Crimea strictly, the brunet's was to whoever paid him the gold. How they got along, even he did not know.
"… Well friend, perhaps I will see you eventually," Volke spoke with an air of finality. With a flick of his wrist, his signature knife- Peshkatz- lay in his hands. Carefully placing the dagger and sheath somewhere on the blond's person and hiding it, the man left his treasure to the one who could be his closest ally.
And then he was gone.
The next day, Bastian's funeral was held and a fireman was in attendance.